The AfterMath
by anonymous kristin
Summary: I take inventory. This is not my floor. Or my tequila. I am on a couch that is not mine either. There are two heavy arms secured across my stomach, holding my tight to a warm body. I am tangles up in Patrick Verona."
1. Prolouge

What. The. Fuck.

My head is throbbing like it's been smashed with an anvil, and my memory is like the far away chalk board and I'm the nearsighted kid sitting in the back of the room without her glasses.

First, my mind goes to the worst. Was I drugged?

Then I see the bottle of tequila upturned and empty on the floor.

I take inventory. This is not my floor. Or my tequila. I am on a couch that is not mine either. I am still clothed in the jeans and off the shoulder sweater that I put on last night, only my boots are carelessly tossed aside by an unfamiliar door. There are 2 heavy arms secured across my stomach, holding me tight to a warm body.

I am tangled up in Patrick Verona.


	2. Chapter 1

"Pair up" My world turns in slow motion as those dreaded words escape Ms. Williams' lips. I flinch, and all around me the happy couples beam, overjoyed at the excuse to be joined at the hip for some other reason than their raging hormones.

Let's just get this straight; I have never played nice with others. Group projects don't go well with me. I like to take charge. Things must go my way. God forbid they don't, and someone looses a limb.

Patrick doesn't waste any time, plopping his books down on the desk in front of mine and swinging his long legs around so that his arms are resting on the back of the seat and his is facing me. Our feet touch under the desk.

"So I figure we get together during break in the library, pick our topic, and do the bulk of our work at my place on Friday night."

At first, I am stunned and taken aback at his frankness, and willingness o actually succeed in a class I am so passionate about.

Then I question his motives, knowing their must be an ulterior one.

"Do I have any say in this?" I ask, with incredulous raise of my eyebrows. He looks around the room, and my eyes follow his. Couples (who I am astounded even got into this class, but anyway) are already canoodling at their desks, and Ms. Williams has pulled out her thermos, which by now we all know if filled with a much stronger substance than plain coffee.

Everybody else is already paired up.

"Does it look like you have a say in this?" He fires his one eyebrow twitch back at me, paired with a smirk that could make Hitler himself surrender. He sounds almost…playful.

Friday at his house it is.


	3. Chapter 2

My hand tightens over my tazer as the heavy footsteps grew louder and closer. There is a hand on my shoulder, and I feel a wave of energy rush over me, both from his touch and from my weapon of choice.

"You were supposed to meet me in the library." His lips are surprisingly close to my ear, and his breath is warm and sticky.

Electricity crackles in the air around us.

An arm has snaked its way around my waist, and is holding me to his body. He is never this physical. It's uncomfortable, and at the same time, invigorating.

Reaching into my locker, I calmly pull out the packet of information that I have painstakingly assembled in the free period meant to be spent with Patrick in the library arguing about which topic for our persuasive paper. Instead, I had taken action.

"It's an argumentative paper, so I went big." I quickly turn around, inspecting his face as he reads the title of the first article.

"'Should Women Still be Allowed in the Army?'" he reads aloud. He silently flips through the color coded papers, occasionally letting me know what he's thinking with a smirk or an eyebrow raise.

"It's controversial." I state matter-o-factly. "Ms. Williams will appreciate it." I bring my face close to his, and with a snarl tell him, "I don't want to be the 8 hundredth group who argues whether pornography should be considered 'taboo' when half of them don't know what that word means. We're doing this."

He doesn't move away. "I assume that we're _for_ women in the army?" I smile cheekily.

"Absolutely."

________________________________________________________________________

I was back at home, on my laptop and looking up various articles about female war heroes, when it hit me.

"…_do the bulk of our work at my place on Friday night."_

First, my mind went to the dark, thirteen-year-old-boy place. It sounded kind of sexual.

Second, the part of my mind that I take great care to shut away and never let see the time of day, my inner hopeless romantic, took over. It sounded like a date.

Friday night was definitely date night. And inviting me over to his house?

His house.

I had never really imagined what his house would be like.

Which was a total lie.

I pictured him, living alone in some dingy, low rent loft down town. His apartment would be above an auto shop, where he spent most of his time restoring old Harleys in the back for half the price of normal work-space, because he was friends with the owner.

The space would be all one room, a dilapidated kitchenette in one corner, and a plain, unmade mattress in another, the floor littered with books, cd's and vinyl, and sheet music.

And me, sitting on a sagging couch a pen tucked behind my ear while he strummed out a song he was struggling with on his old Gibson Les Paul, hoping that I would give him some inspiration.

…Because I really haven't given any though to what his place would be like. At all.


	4. Chapter 3

Hello! Sorry for the chapter confusion before, but I fixed the titles. This is my first multi-chapter stories, and you guys have no idea how long it took me to figure out how to add on to existing stories. So bear with me!

________________________________________________________________________

As Friday rolls around, I forget all the jittery nights I've spent hyped up on my seventh Red Bull, trying to gather more information for out paper, so that I can get in and get out of his house as quickly as I possible.

Because I am actually nervous.

Even though I don't technically know if there will be parents present, It doesn't seem like there would be.

Patrick doesn't seem like the type to have a Donna Reed look-alike mother who hovers around our study sessions and offers us brownies.

So as the clock changes to 12:04, and I swallow the dregs of my energy drink, I print out the finished outline for my paper, and stumble into my bed, letting the weights that have been attached to my eyelids for about 2 hours now pull my eyes, and my mind, closed.

________________________________________________________________________

"Lets go." Is my greeting at 3:45, as I pack up my worn out messenger bag to the tune of slamming lockers and chattering morons.

"Hello to you too."

He takes my bag from me, and grabs my hand, nearly yanking it out of its socket in the process.

In my mind, I weigh the options: I can protest, kick and scream; or I can just roll with it, because the kicking and screaming probably won't faze him anyway.

I decided on option 3. "Why the sudden warmth?"

He smirks, turning his head to the side so I can see his strong profile and the adorable half grin that he's wearing. "We have a lot of work to do."

_Little does he know…_

He is pulling me towards his bike.

"Oh no." I say, digging my heels into the ground, but the flat souls of my boots slip away quickly.

"How else are we going to get there?"

I look at him like he's joking. "My car."

He returns my skepticism in the form of an eyebrow raise.

"It might not be as snazzy as this," I wave my arms to the motorcycle he is now perched casually on, a helmet in his outstretched hand. "But it will do just fine."

Getting off the shiny hunk of black metal, he lets out a sigh, like the task is just too much for him. He stands about 1 inch from and, making the height difference between us even more pronounced, and pushing the helmet onto my head. "Don't tell me you've never wanted to ride a motorcycle."

"I have…never wanted to ride a motorcycle." I think the pause was purposeful. I want him to want me to ride behind him, holding on to him for dear life.

"Get on the bike."


	5. Chapter 4

This is a high.

My fingers are the only things that hold me to the bike (and to Patrick), and my hair whips around my face like it only does in dreams. Our bodies lean together in perfect synchronicity as he guides the bike into a gentle turn onto a tree-covered dirt road.

The thick cover of brush mixed with the pearly clouds, heavy with rain, cast a green haze over the path. The temperature has dropped under the coat of ferns and I snuggle closer to Patrick. I feel him chuckle, but the roar of the wind in my ears drowns out the sound I long to hear.

My eyes close.

When the bike stops, I blink, trying to focus on the huge Victorian Mansion that is sitting before me. Elaborate and curling woodwork lines the trim, all painted in rich jade greens that echoed the color of the leaves.

He has already gotten off the bike; my bag casually slung across his shoulders, and is walking backward towards the house, his eyes focused on me.

"You coming?"

With a disbelieving shake of my head and a smile, I follow him, not able to take my eyes off the stunning house that seems to contradict everything I know about him, and yet, it still doesn't surprise me.

________________________________________________________________________

Patrick slams the door behind me, and kicks off his Dr. Martens, motioning for me to do the same. He catches me admiring the room- the high and detailed ceilings, the swooping staircase that wraps around a breathtaking crystal chandelier. A series of lifelike paintings adorn the dark wooden paneled walls, saturated colors splashed onto canvasses form roses, sunflowers and lilies.

"Not what you expected huh?"

I smile, and shake my head. "Not at all."

I run my fingers along the woodwork as I follow him into a rustic kitchen, with an unfinished stone wall on one end, and heavy oak cabinets hung from the others. Old fashioned copper pots and pans hung from a dated over-head rack.

He pulls open a wood-paneled refrigerator and takes out 2 cans of soda, some obscure French brand that I don't recognize, and set them down on the granite counter.

"So I'm going to go ahead and guess that you don't live alone here?"

He nods and a half smile plays at the corners up his full lips. "Parents are rarely home, so we should be ok."

_Ok for what?_

"If you're finished ogling at my parents house, let's get to work, shall we?"


	6. Chapter 5

We sit down on the softest couch I have ever had the pleasure to sink into.

"I did some work by myself." I tell him, reaching for my bag. My shirt rides up, exposing a pale stretch of skin on my back. I am fully aware of his eyes on me.

"I figured as much." His voice deadpans coolly. Although, he obviously did not figure that I had gone ahead and written out the guideline for our entire paper. His eyes nearly bug out of his head as I toss the 16 page packet onto his lap. "You know, this is supposed to be a group project?"

"Like you were actually going to take initiative."

He shrugs and leafs through the pages. "Looks good enough for me."

"Then let's get this over with."

________________________________________________________________________

The first thing I notice when he pulls out his laptop is the background. A motorcycle. What else? But there are no scantily clad girls sitting on the bike. No blond bombshells strattling the leather seat. Just a motorcycle.

The second thing I notice is that when he pulls open a new Microsoft Word document, on the side menu, where it gives you the last 4 things you opened, the 1st one is "Women in the Army Paper Outline"

The third thing I realize is that our minds are frighteningly similar. Sure, while were writing we squabble over the words we use or the picture we're trying to create, but our ideas are generally the same. We think alike.

After about 1 hour and 43 minutes, we have finished our five page, 1,698 word, and double spaced paper.

And we don't really know what to do now.

Because it has just started to rain.

And I remember that we took his motorcycle here, and not my, nice, covered car.

And that I can't get home unless he drives me back to school first.

And as much fun as riding his bike was before, I can't imagine it would be anywhere close to as enjoyable in the rain.

And all of these thoughts rush into my head, just as the first clap of thunder shakes the house, and the lights shut off.


	7. Chapter 6

Ha. Ha-ha. No.

I'm going to pretend I'm not sitting in the dark, on couch with Patrick Verona, in his house, while a storm rages on.

That I'm not beginning to feel the temperature drop, and hearing the rain pounding on the roof, as I sit on my hands on a couch next to Patrick Verona.

That I'm not closing my eyes, wishing for the rain to stop, for the lights to come back on, or that this is all just a horribly, horribly, ironic dream, and that I'm not sitting on a couch next to Patrick Verona.

Because that would just be a little too awkward.

Too bad he's looking at me now; I can just see the outline of his features in the dark.

"We should get a flashlight. Or a candle. Or something."

"We should."

"That would be wise." The darkness has somehow made everything ten times more uncomfortable.

"I have a flashlight in my room." He gets up, presumably to get said flashlight, and leaves me sitting on the couch. Of course, after about 12 seconds of silence, I follow him.

His bedroom at the end of the hallway, a plain oak door without any warnings, or signs that foretell toxic waste that might lie inside.

The door swings open, and I have another reason to wish that the power was working.

In the darkness, I can make out a large bed in one corner, unmade, naturally, next to a large window, through which I see a menacing flash of lightening.

He disappears into a closet, and after a couple dangerous-sounding crashes, he emerges with a bright yellow flashlight. He pans the beam around the room one or twice, testing the dim bulb, and giving me a fleeting glimpse at his Lion's Den.

Next to the window is stationed an easel, a loose sketch of a woman's face scratched into the canvass. Across the room there was a large brown suede couch, buried under school books, notebooks and loose paper, covered in rows and rows of tiny chicken scratch. My heart swells as I see the 1994 Gibson Les Paul, possibly the most beautiful instrument ever created, leaning against the couch, surrounded by stacks of novels and sheet music and CD's. I see Led Zeppelin albums and countless Beatles vinyl, and even some more modern stuff mixed in, The Goo Goo dolls, before they got too commercial, and some Our Lady Peace with a splash of Pearl Jam. I smile at the home-made discs, labeled in his scrawling print, with impromptu titles like "Tuesday, 12: 46 PM" and "That Time I was Feeling Pissed at the World" They were his demos.

Even though the Victorian Mansion was a surprise, his corner of the house, tucked in the back, was just what I was expecting.

________________________________________________________________________

It is 5:31.

In a short time, Patrick has started a cozy fire, to keep us warm in the absence of central heating, lit the room with dozens of candles, and procured heavy (faux, he has assured me) fur blankets.

I am curled up into a ball on the couch; he has taken the regal armchair in the corner. We are sipping tea out of classy, cream colored china mugs, and not saying a word to each other.

"To tell me about it." I bite.

His quizzical stare is my answer, to which I reply with a broad wave of my hand to my surroundings. "This." I shrug. "All of it."

His deep voice rumbles in my ears, giving me chills underneath my blanket cocoon. "Where to begin?"


	8. Chapter 7

"My dad is a lawyer, and a pretty good and conniving one at that. My mom is an artist. She teaches classes at the Community Center downtown. She comes from old money."

"Old like this house?"

He nods. "Old like half this county."

When he doesn't say anything else, I push him forward with questions. "Did she do those paintings?" I gesture to the vibrant flowers hung behind him. Remembering the easel hidden in his room, I want him to say that he did them. But I know that even though this visit to his house has come with many surprises, flowers still probably won't be Patrick's thing.

"Yep." His gaze lingers on them, their achingly detailed petals, their bold colors screaming for the attention they deserve. "But I did those."

He points to an array of drawings that I hadn't seen before, muted, barely there, but once I see them, they speak to me with such a strong voice I have completely forgotten the flashy flora on the other wall.

He has sketched a woman's face, her head tossed back in peels of laughter that I wish I could hear. Lines and wrinkles in her skin make her look real, tangible. In a second frame, I see a man, his large hand placed over his eyes in pain, or shame, his face downturn with dark curls cascading down his covered features. A third illustration pictures a little boy, his big eyes are full of wonder and awe, a tiny hint of a smile plays at the corner of his round lips. He has the same messy curls as the man in the last frame, and as Patrick, sitting in the armchair across form me, and watching my face so intently as I scan the remaining sketch. The man, woman, and child are standing now, faces buried within each other in a solid embrace.

"They're beautiful." I say, even though it sounded like a huge understatement. I turn to face him. "I'm guessing not a whole lot of people know about this hidden talent."

He smiles. "It would totally screw up my bad boy image."

"So tell me about that."

With a chuckle and a toss of his hair, he says "Nope."

"Why?"

He glances at this feet, and smiles inwardly. Then, fixing his rather concentrated gaze on me, "It's your turn."

I sigh. "What do you want to know?"

"How you came to be 'Kat, the ball crushing feminist.'"

Smiling, and in a mocking tone, I answer. "Where to begin?"

________________________________________________________________________

"When my mom first died, I guess I kind of went crazy." This is so not what I want to be talking about. "My Dad was trying to raise 2 teenage daughters without a mother, and even though he tried his hardest to keep us in check, it was hard with out someone who could understand what we were going through… as young women…" I sign, hating myself for making this so awkward, while Patrick is cool and collected, staring me down from his perch across the room. "And because I didn't have anyone who could talk me through all that teenage girl stuff, I decided to try it all.

"I was popular, back in those days. I was head cheerleader. All the guys would throw themselves at me." this sounds conceited, but true. "I tried drugs, I drank until I couldn't remember who I was, and I lost my virginity at a party to a guy who's name I will never say again, and who promptly called me 'Kristi' after the deed was done, and left me drunk and alone in some guy's basement.

"My Dad didn't know what happened; he just knew I would do anything to get out of that town.

"And so here I am, in all my 'ball-crushing, feminist' glory."

He is quiet. He nods. Then he starts his own story.

"A couple years back, my Dad had an affair. With his secretary. My mother was strong enough not to walk away from him, and decided to work it out. She said it was the right thing for me.

"I was furious with my dad. I didn't understand how he could do that to us. And so I made his life hell. I ran with 'the wrong crowd' as he called it. I 'had so much potential, and was burning it all away.' But I didn't care. It was like I wasn't even thinking. I saw a bike one day, and all I could think of was the Volvo that my father was going to buy me for my 16th birthday. I saw a pamphlet for community college and all I could think of was the Bones Gate Fraternity hat that my Dad got me during one of his reunions at Dartmouth." He pushes his curls out of his face. "God, he was so disappointed in me." I think of the picture hanging behind me, of the man who was his father in that exact position.

"And you were disappointed in him."

The expression on his face is equal parts embarrassment, pain, and thankfulness.

He nods.

"I get it."


	9. Chapter 8

"I know what we need." He tells me, practically leaping off the chair, his long legs propelling him with record speed to the kitchen.

I am left alone to reflect on what has just happened.

Patrick knows that I lost my virginity to some jackass back in Ohio.

I know the reasons behind Patrick's rebel behavior.

Patrick knows I used to be a cheerleader.

I know Patrick's painful history.

Patrick knows that I am not a virgin.

I know Patrick's secret, totally non-bad-boy talent.

Patrick knows_ that I am not a virgin. _

He returns with bottle of tequila and two glasses in hand. We have just basically bared our souls to each other, and he seems to think that alcohol is what we need?

I have to say, I agree 100%.

"A toast." He proposes.

"To shedding new light on old situations." I feel this is fitting. He shakes his head. Obviously, he doesn't.

"To convenient power-outages."

I will drink to that.

And I do.

And so does he.

________________________________________________________________________

"Tattoos?" I ask him. I have forgotten what a horrible drunk I am. Slobbering, ridiculous and giddy, I never fail to embarrass myself.

At the same time, Patrick seems to grow more solemn, quiet. In answer to my slurred question, he squints, as if trying to recall that night so long ago when he was inked.

He does, and to my delight and horror, lifts us his black tee shirt to unveil a Chinese symbol on his left peck.

I giggle.

"Strength." He huffs.

"Fitting…" I say, tilting my head to the left to get a better look at his sculpted abdomen.

He smiles fleetingly, tossing back another gulp of the liquor, and pouring both of us another.

The candles have nearly completely burned down, their blackened wicks sticking up like dead trees in a fire.

"You?" He asks.

I frown, and in shame, tug down on the waistband of my jeans. Underneath the black denim, on my right hip is a small heart with a "K" and a "T" etched in red onto my porcelain skin.

He scowls, mumbling, "Sorry."

The mood is darkened, and I feel it is my duty to lighten spirits. With a hiccup and a goofy grin, I do my best. "Most embarrassing thing you've ever done." I command.

He tries his best to conceal a knowing smirk. "Well, there was this one time, I showed up at this girls house, trying to tell her that I thought I liked her a lot more than I usually led on." Our eyes lock. "Her sister walked in on us, and I had to climb down before I could finish."

"Did it work out in the end?" I whisper.

He gets up, covering the distance between us a couple of steps, sinking into the couch beside me. Grabbing the edge of the blanket I'm hiding under, he slips in with me, his arms wrapping around my body. His face is nestled in my hair, then his lips are on my ear. His breath smells like alcohol, but then so does mine.

"I think so."


	10. Chapter 9

_What. The. Fuck. _

_My head is throbbing like it's been smashed with an anvil, and my memory is like the far away chalk board and I'm the nearsighted kid sitting in the back of the room without her glasses._

_First, my mind goes to the worst. Was I drugged?_

_Then I see the bottle of tequila upturned and empty on the floor._

_I take inventory. This is not my floor. Or my tequila. I am on a couch that is not mine either. I am still clothed in the jeans and off the shoulder sweater that I put on last night; only my boots are carelessly tossed aside by an unfamiliar door. There are 2 heavy arms secured across my stomach, holding me tight to a warm body. _

_I am tangled up in Patrick Verona. _

________________________________________________________________________

The light is blinding, turning the inside of my eyelids a bright orangey-red. I lie there, stiff as a board and unable to move.

This is not my house. Dark and regal wooden bookcases cover the walls and a green marble fireplace houses the remnants of a dying fire.

What the hell happened?

I squirm around a little, stopping short with a small gasp as he pulls me closer to his body. Only Patrick could make a death grip seem tender.

Thoughts catapult themselves through my head. Surprisingly, given my current situation, I am quite calm.

Aside form the feeling that a small creature died in my mouth, and that there must be someone in my head, hacking away at my brain with a pick-axe, I am ok.

And there's the fact that Patrick's strong arms are holding me to him, and I can smell him all over me.

I'm guessing that has some sort of calming affect on me.

Suddenly a groggy voice echoes in my ear. "Well. I really wish I knew how we ended up …here…."

________________________________________________________________________

I don't move a muscle. "I'm not particularly sure." There are no words to describe how much I don't want him to be angry, or afraid.

I let out a little gasp as I feel his warm lips on my shoulder. They slowly find my way to my neck, kissing sucking, and licking all the way up to the corner of my mouth. All coherent thoughts have fled my mind, and my lungs are failing me. He purrs into my skin.

"Frankly…" I turn to face him, my features a mask of peril, excitement, and amour. He is smiling brilliantly, his eyes smoldering. I turn back around, resting my head gently on his chest as he wraps his fingers in my hair. "I don't think I really care."


End file.
